


Vitrification

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Delphi, Messatine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 18:25:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6764968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was time to transform the old into something new.  Messatine would either stabilize Ratchet for safe disposal or break the bonds holding him together, but one way or another, it would change him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shokveyv](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shokveyv).



**Title:** Vitrification  
**Warning:** Writing an AU based off of a “What If” idea, so events and characterization are going to change because of that. Threats? Possibly gore?  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** IDW MTMTE  
**Characters:** Ratchet, Ambulon, First Aid, Pharma.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** A work for Shokveyv, who asked a very simple question - “What if Ratchet had been sent to Delphi instead of Pharma?”

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Part One**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Messatine was cold, bleak, and optic-searing white. Frigid wind whistled through the airlock as soon as the seal cracked, and the temperature inside the shuttle plummeted. Beams of light came through next, outlining the door in blinding white that made Ratchet throw a hand up to shield his optics. Blinking repeatedly narrowed his lenses to deal with the overwhelming assault, but it didn’t help much. Reflection off the protective glass of his optics made it difficult to see. He squinted against the glare of ice and snow even as he stepped out onto the loading ramp.

It was even more barren than the planet’s bio had led him to believe. He spent a moment scanning the horizon looking for life, a single sign of anything living out here on the surface. Nothing but bare rock thrust up through the hard-packed snow met his optics. They were scoured clean by the wind. From the direction of the wind, he’d bet the side he couldn’t see was glazed in ice, falling snow blown sideways and frozen hard. That side of his body was already past chilled and into cold. His armor would soon show the same frost. 

The snowscape had a sort of desolate beauty to it, but what killed on Messatine couldn’t be seen. The wind was dangerous. Ratchet was losing heat fast, and the shuttle airlock had opened less than a minute ago. 

The transfer guidelines hadn’t warned about this level of extreme cold. According to it, the people under the icy crust of the surface were the real killers. The miners from both factions worked underground in opposite hemispheres of the planet. They stayed unseen in the mines until they boiled out for raid, and the fighting tended to take place anywhere _but_ the surface. The Autobots pinned the Decepticons down in the tunnels where flight wouldn’t be an advantage, stealing carts of mined nucleon; the Decepticons hit Autobot cargo ships in the air as they left the planet, taking the nucleon there. Then both factions disappeared back into their warrens, leaving death and destruction behind. 

For people like Ratchet to clean up. His optics finally focused through the painful light, and he spotted a blurry outline of red and yellow standing at the foot of the ramp. Primary colors, sturdy build, obviously here to meet someone: this had to be another medic. The miners, his scanty briefing packet told him, rarely left their warm tunnels for the frozen surface. 

“Ratchet?”

“That’s me,” he said, jerking a nod. The center of his palms twinged as the cold started to stiffen the joints, and he decided not to offer his hand in greeting.

“I’m Ambulon. Nice to meet you.” Ambulon promptly leaned to the side, craning his neck to see around the new transfer. “Not to be rude, but if those supply crates aren’t meant for us, you may be privy to some unflattering behavior from the clinic’s ward manager.”

Ratchet chose to be amused by that. There was a peculiar hunger hiding behind Ambulon’s officiousness. He’d seen it before in undersupplied drop areas. People without supplies who saw supplies immediately wanted those supplies. “Most of them are being dropped here,” he said, and Ambulon straightened, shoulders easing down as irritated concern was replaced by relief. Watching the guy felt a little like looking into a mirror. Ratchet gave him a companionable smile. “Who’s the ward manager?”

“Me,” Ambulon said, unapologetically continuing without pause for introductions. “I brought a sled. Will any of the crew help unload, or are they waiting for you to get out so they can get the frag out of this -- “ The sentence cut off, and yellow optics suddenly turned toward the sled. “Off the planet, I mean.”

It wasn’t difficult to fill in what he’d been about to say. Nobody of any importance was sent out to this obscure locale, and most people actively avoided being assigned here. The miners shipped out nucleon by the shipload, but the second biggest export of Messatine was corpses.

“I think it’s just you and I,” Ratchet said after a ping to the shuttle cockpit spat back nothing but static. He stifled the immediate urge to storm up there and say something about lazy, work-shirking, good-for-nothing wastes of space. Throwing his weight around wouldn’t get him as much as it used to. Guilt might compel the crew to help, but realistically, what could he do if they didn’t? It would do him good to get used to his new rank and the loss of respect it earned him. Frowning, Ratchet glanced back into the hold. “We can manage on our own. There isn’t much.”

“There never is. Well, we’d better get on it. Radar didn’t show any storms heading in, but spring’s unpredictable. We could be knee-deep in fresh snow if we don’t hurry.” Ambulon started up the ramp after hauling the sled to the foot. “I’ll take the heavier crates.”

Stung, Ratchet didn’t clear the door. “I’m not that old!”

Ambulon gave him a funny look. “Old?”

Ah. Right. That would be his insecurities acting up. “Sorry. Bit sensitive.” About his age, he didn’t say, but he didn’t have to after snapping like that.

The apology was a bitter mouthful to say, sticking on his tongue like the admittance to himself that he’d be tetchy about such remarks if he didn’t watch it. Biting people’s heads off for coddling him was one thing, but from Ambulon’s reaction, the offer had been efficiency instead of niceness. Ratchet turned away, glad for the excuse of unloading the supplies. He didn’t regret what he’d done to get here, but it wasn’t easy adjusting to the consequences. Necessity and unvarnished self-reflection had brought about his assignment to the Delphi Medical Center. Neither was particularly palatable.

Ambulon stood there looking at him strangely a moment more, but he seemed the professional type. As soon as Ratchet started dragging crates, he shook off whatever he was thinking and slapped at the wall beside the airlock with the familiarity of somebody who’d unloaded supply shuttles before. The inventory tablet clattered when he hit it, and he clicked it free of the magnetic strip. “Ha, now let’s see what they’ve sent us. Antifreeze, good…”

The muttering kept up as Ambulon checked off the crates. He stopped Ratchet at the airlock to point toward two crates at the back. “I’ll start with those, they’re heaviest. We can fit everything on the sled in one load if we put the heaviest ones on the bottom and stack on top of them. You can bring that one down,” he gestured at the crate Ratchet held, “but stack it on the ramp for now. Don’t set anything on the snow, it’ll crack the crust and go through.” With that, he slapped the inventory onto his hip and strode toward the heavy crates. 

Ratchet thought he’d transform to haul them out, so he hurried to clear the door, going down to set the crate where indicated. He didn’t enjoy being ordered around, but Ambulon was the ward manager. Organization was part of the job description. Plus, someone with hands-on experience doing this overrode Ratchet’s theoretical authority, if the old medic put aside his ego. As long as Ambulon didn’t try to take charge in the middle of surgery, Ratchet would follow his orders out here. 

Footsteps warned him. He looked up and blinked, surprised. 

Ambulon was _carrying_ the crate. “Spot me?” he grunted. “Can’t really see the sled around this thing.”

Being asked for help felt much better than being ordered. It was a courtesy Ratchet appreciated. “You’re clear to the foot of the ramp, step left, now down onto the snow -- careful!” Ambulon hadn’t been exaggerating about the crust breaking. The first step off the ramp put the ward manager up to his knee, but he merely grimaced. “Okay, turn to your right,” Ratchet said, hustling over to push on the side threatening to go off the edge of the sled. “Here’s good. Down.”

Together, they guided the crate down onto the sled, which sagged slightly. The snow-crust creaked but held. They straightened, eying it. Ratchet flexed his hands, feeling the cold sink in. The ache of his joints was becoming a nagging pain. Pretty soon he wouldn’t be able to tell if the numbness came from age-corroded sensors or frozen wires. 

Ambulon turned to hike back up the ramp. “I’ll get the next one.” 

Ratchet watched him thoughtfully, taking in more details now that he was thinking instead of reacting. Reinforced struts under utilitarian armor, no visible altmode, an odd configuration at key transformation seams…no wonder Ambulon had told him he’d take the heavy crates. The mech had to have a weight rating that could benchpress Ratchet’s like it was nothing. Either he was part of Triple-M or he had a history buried in Classified files somewhere. 

Shaking his head, Ratchet went back for another crate. The personnel files for the clinic hadn’t been part of his briefing packet. Nothing of real interest to do with the clinic had been in it, other than the fact that it needed a competent leader to take the open slot. No mention was made of where the last administrator had gone, or what kind of staff worked there. It had all been circumstantial information about the planet, an overview of the mines, and detailed information about the current roster of the Decepticon Justice Division. Ratchet now knew everything Autobot Intelligence had on Tarn, or so it felt, and while that was relevant information considering the clinic’s location, he’d rather have background files on the people he’d be working with and repairing.

The briefing packet had been set up oddly. The overall feel of it seemed like a dare to take the position. The wording had been a subtle challenge of pride and talent. Given that Prowl had originally aimed it at Pharma, Ratchet had his suspicions about that. The whole thing smelled like manipulation.

He didn’t see what it could possibly be setting up, however, aside from excellent medical care out in the aft end of nowhere. He stood by his decision. It didn’t matter that he’d come here in Pharma’s place, at least in terms of filling the job requirements. He was still a good medic. Just not as good as he’d been. 

Ratchet helped stack the boxes as Ambulon directed, mindful of his hands, and didn’t protest as the stronger mech took the sled handles. The moment they cleared the airlock for the last time, the ramp slid back up and the engines whined online. The pilots barely waited for the two of them to trudge to minimum safe distance before living off, and they shielded their faces against the blast of hot air. It felt good for a split second, but the intense cold _hurt_ as soon as the warmth passed.

Ratchet tried to hide the wave of shivers, but Ambulon caught it. “Come on. You’re not insulated right for this climate. You need to get inside before you freeze up.”

“I complied with transfer guidelines,” Ratchet said, neutral, but the mech hauling the sled ahead of him dismissed that with a puff of air visible in the cold for only a second.

Yellow optics glanced back. “Those guidelines prepare new transfers for summer weather. Autobot Command never updates with our recommendations for winter prep, maybe so it won’t scare people off. One extra coat of insulation on your wires just doesn’t cut it out here.” Ambulon looked at the grey clouds slowly advancing from the horizon. “You’re lucky you arrived before that hit. Anything less than coating the underside of your armor in insulation won’t keep you operational in a storm, and we have to put on external gear for actual winter weather.”

Ratchet followed in the wide track of the sled as he pondered that. No wonder he was losing heat so fast. Well, that was one thing he could definitely do for the clinic. One of the benefits of knowing someone high up, even if he himself wasn’t part of the upper ranks anymore, was the ability to call in favors. The transfer guidelines were meant for safety, and he’d be slagged if they remained out of date while he was here.

His hands hurt. After hesitating for a moment, he abandoned his pride and tucked them up under his arms. They were chill spots against his already cold armor. He couldn’t feel a couple of his fingers, and it was entirely likely that wasn’t from the cold. 

Delphi Medical Center squatted in the snow up ahead, the only structure in sight. Ambulon dragged the sled toward it at a quick pace, aiming to get inside before the storm hit. Ratchet looked at it as they drew closer. It didn’t look like much. That was fine by him. It was as decent a place to retire as any while still doing the Autobots some good. 

He ducked his head against the wind and followed the sled.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Two**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Ambulon thawed as soon as the door closed behind them. “Sorry about being so short. There’s no time for manners out in the wind,” he explained as he hauled the sled through the halls. “Everything freezes out there, even people. Don’t go out again until we insulate your exposed parts, and I mean **don’t** , especially not onto the landing pad. The wind’s even colder higher up.” Ratchet saw him twitch, probably realizing he’d fallen right back into treating the new head of the facility like a rookie. “Er, lecturing again…habit, I suppose. New transfers need a lot of information in a short amount of time, and if I don’t cram it into their download slots before they disappear down into the mines, they next time I see them they’re lucky if it’s just to replace cold-burst fuel lines. It really is an honor to meet you, sir. We couldn’t believe you were coming. First Aid insisted it was a clerical error.”

Ratchet assumed First Aid was someone he hadn’t met yet. “Obviously not.”

“Obviously. But, uh, it’s unexpected. I mean, having the Chief Medical Officer come here is -- “

“I’m not,” Ratchet corrected, interrupting but not caring about the rudeness. He’d better get used to used to having this conversation. It was easier on everyone to just get it over with. “I retired from that position. Too old to keep chasing the Prime around and heading the Medical Corps.” He hadn’t meant to say that last part, but oh well. His age wasn’t a secret, and someone would eventually wonder if there was some kind of scandal that had quietly dismissed him. 

His apologies to the gossipmongers, but there wasn’t any dirt there to dig up. It had been a voluntary retirement. He’d assessed his own well-being, taken stock of the situation, and decided that stepping aside was the best action to take. It was either retire now or take responsibility for possibly killing someone when his faltering hands went on the fritz during an important operation. Age wasn’t a scandal, nor was it a disgrace. As long as he accepted it upfront and honest, the gossip would die off in a month or two as word got around that he’d stepped down from a sense of duty, not because of some conspiracy.

Although tongues would wag that he hadn’t just stepped aside. He’d dropped his entire professional career and personal life in the course of a single day, making his own transfer to Messantine his last official order before resigning. Ratchet had left on a shuttle before his resignation even cleared, which likely had thrown everyone into an uproar, but it was over and done with. The Chief Medical Officer signed off on all medical personnel assignments, and unless everyone at Autobot Command collectively lost their minds and overrode that authority to call him back, the swap was made and he was as retired as any medic could be in the middle of war. 

Prowl had originally asked Pharma to go, but Pharma had different obligations, now. Ratchet had appointed Pharma his successor, or at least heavily recommended him to all the relevant authorities. Optimus Prime would be a fool to hold out on the promotion on the hope of convincing Ratchet to come out of retirement. Packing up and moving to the back end of the galaxy was as much a way to squash attempts to get him back as it was a deterrent to his own meddling tendencies. He knew himself too well to think that giving up the rank would stop him from poking his nose where it no longer belonged, and people would let him, based on his reputation. 

They’d keep turning to him, too. They were used to turning to him. Remaining where he was would have just undermined the new CMO. It wouldn’t have been fair to Pharma, or to the people who depended on him. Either of them, now. The Autobots had to learn that Ratchet was out of reach, and Ratchet had to learn to cope. Pharma could handle the responsibilities of the job. It was, after all, what Ratchet had been training him for. 

Ambulon stayed silent through the halls, but he reset his vocalizer when they reached the supply room. “We, er, I knew that. I saw the announcement, I mean. It’s more accurate to say that it was read to me, but I didn’t believe it for a while due to how it was stated.” He avoided Ratchet’s inquiring look. “You don’t have to help me put these away. It’ll take the better part of an hour to check in the supplies, and I’m sure you’d like to settle in. Your office is down the hall, turn right, and up the lift on the main tower, third floor.”

That was evasion, and half-aft evasion at that. Ratchet narrowed his optics at the ward manager. “Oh, but there’s no reason not to help. Mundane tasks go faster with help, and I like to get to know the people I’ll be working with. How long have you been assigned to this post, Ambulon?”

The fake friendliness in his voice made it hard to argue with. What could Ambulon say to that? He forced a smile as they went into the room. “Longest serving medic here, or at least the longest **surviving** one.” He grabbed for a crate as if needing the excuse not to meet Ratchet’s optics. “I’m going to make the guess our survival rates wasn’t in your briefing packet. I’ve noticed Autobot Command tells the miners what their odds are when they transfer, but medical personnel are shipped in with no info.”

“No. No, you’re right. Good guess,” Ratchet said dryly. “I did wonder what happened to the person I’m replacing.”

“He died,” Ambulon said. “Slowly and messily, screaming out in the snow, just like the two facility heads before him, and a round dozen other nurses and medics. From what I’ve been able to tell, pieced together from what I’ve seen here over the years, the D.J.D. targets us specifically. They stay out of the shipment fights, but they pick off the clinic staff. I’d say they’re trying to make examples of us, but nobody off-planet ever seems to find out what they do.” His voice fell to a resentful mutter. “Keeps staff transferring in, I suppose. Ignorance is bliss.” 

Unpacking stock was a great conversational aide. It gave their hands something to do while they avoided looking at each other. Unpleasant truths weren’t generally regarded favorably when the lower ranks brought them out into the open. Bringing that nasty secret up in front of the former CMO had to be making the ward manager nervous as the Pit. Ratchet had to admire his courage, or maybe his stubborn refusal to treat a mid-rank medic as anyone special despite that former rank hanging over them.

Someone had been hiding this little nugget of horror back at Command, and Ratchet had an idea of whom. The name started with ‘P’ and ended with ‘L,’ and there wasn’t even much Ratchet could have done about it even as CMO. Some of the things Prowl did weren’t entirely ethical, and Ratchet could have railed at him over letting medical personnel walk blind into this situation, but at the same time, how ethical was it to allow the Autobots here work without proper medical care? Some medics _might_ have braved the risk of torture, but Ratchet would have certainly balked at _assigning_ them here out of responsibility for their well-being. He could almost hear Prowl arguing that the end justified the means, in this case the omission of information to keep the nucleon mines operational.

Supply and demand dictated too much in war. Nucleon was demanded, and steps had to be taken to secure the supply. It wasn’t nice, it wasn’t ethical, but it was the price of war. 

“Of course, it might just be that they’re after me,” Ambulon said after a couple crates were put away. He winced slightly at whatever expression Ratchet wore. “I know, I know, persecution complex, but I have more reason than most to think it’s all about getting me. I, uhm, I’ve been stationed here since I defected. They legitimately could be targeting Delphi because of me.”

Ratchet blinked, straightening to look at the ward manager. “You were a Decepticon? Obvious question, nevermind,” he waved it away. “Why did you accept an assignment here, of all places?” There was daring fate, but then there was jumping wholesale into danger. Ambulon was either foolhardy or incredibly brave, and Ratchet wasn’t sure which.

Ambulon didn’t look away from the bolts he was sorting. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice in the matter. I was told to report to a shuttle and was briefed on my transfer when it landed. By now, leaving would feel like jinxing myself. I’ve lasted this long in the shadow of the Justice Division. Why break a streak?” A grim smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. “Longest surviving medic isn’t a title to scoff at.” His optics cut toward Ratchet. “First Aid’s next down the line on the survivor list, so if you listen to me, you have a chance of making it like us. It’s not that hard surviving if you follow the rules.” The shutters around his optics pinched slightly. “The D.J.D. is obsessed with proper procedure. I’ve figured out some of the guidelines they follow, and sticking to them’s kept me out of their reach. It’s only when the others stuck their necks out that Tarn got his hands on them.”

Ratchet nodded slowly. That fit what the strangely detailed briefing packet had revealed about the current Tarn. It might even explain why the transfer information focused on the D.J.D. instead of clinic staff personnel files or survival rates. The more important parts of the briefing packet were present, perhaps. The rest could be filled in upon arrival.

They worked companionable side-by-side, passing things out of the crates to put on the wall. Ratchet had things to think over. Ambulon had his mouth shut in a grim line as though he thought he’d already said too much.

So Ratchet switched topics, going back to what had caught his attention in the first place. “Why didn’t you believe I’d resigned?” he asked lightly enough, breaking the silence.

Wide yellow optics turned toward him for a split second. Ambulon had a stoic façade, but there seemed to be a bunch of reactions hiding behind it just waiting to pop out. “Ahm, ah, well.” He swallowed, nervous expression smoothing. “The announcement was a surprise -- I didn’t see it coming, anyway, and really, how often do people **retire** anymore?” He must have seen the storm brewing in Ratchet’s optics because he backpedaled immediately. “N-no offense, it’s not that there’s anything wrong with that! It’s just that, er, I can’t remember the last person to resign due to old age.”

It took conscious effort to relax his jaw. The joint ached from how hard he’d clenched his teeth. Inhaling deeply, Ratchet bundled up all the resentment, forcing himself to acknowledge it had everything to do with his ego and related issues with being seen as feeble after so long being the most competent, best of the best, etc. He’d known this would happen. There was something about the word ‘retire’ that made people leap to assumptions about infirmity and addled minds.

“Soldiers whose bodies start to break down generally die before they can retire,” he said instead of something sarcastic about short memories. He didn’t like talking about this at all, but in the interest of cutting off gossip, it was best to approach this in a clinical, factual manner. “Or they show their age in different ways than specialty frametypes like mine. Others, like Rung, don’t need their bodies at physical peak to perform their jobs well. Medics, on the other hand -- heh. Lives depend on us being at our best, physically **and** mentally. My mind’s still fine, but my hands,” he said, holding them out and flexing them as if in demonstration, “have begun to lose feeling. It isn’t crippling me yet, but.” He shrugged, and Ambulon’s optics rose from his hands to look at him. He hated the sympathy in the ward manager’s face.

“But there’s a ‘yet’ in that sentence,” Ambulon finished for him.

“Yes.”

Ambulon dropped his optics to looking at Ratchet’s hands again. They were famous, those hands. Without them, Ratchet was still a great doctor, a fount of experience and acquired knowledge, but that was a far cry from being an active surgeon or the main medic for Optimus Prime. Not many people retired anymore, but Ratchet had drawn the short straw of survival. His specialization suffered from age, and the responsible thing to do was exactly what he’d done: step down before his failing hands killed someone.

“Resigning was the best option,” Ambulon said in a somber tone Ratchet wanted to smack out of him. He wasn’t _dying_ , for Adaptus’ sake!

Fortunately, the ward manager shook off the brief moment of sap. “Well. That explains a lot. First Aid’s theory was that the main front would be turning back here again, but this being a retirement position for you makes much more sense.” His optics narrowed. “It does make me wonder how many people you told about it before you just went ahead and did it, however,” he said, and Ratchet leaned back from the sudden exasperation in his voice. “We’ve had two calls straight from Optimus Prime, an extremely angry hail of messages from half of Command, and the **new** Chief Medical Officer hasn’t been making himself very well liked out here, yelling at us like that!”

Somehow, it didn’t surprise Ratchet that Pharma was already making enemies. Ratchet rubbed at his chevron, defensive but rather sheepish as it struck him that he hadn’t escaped anything by leaving without saying goodbye. The consequences had followed him. Pharma outranked him, now. The mech could order him onto a commline to yell at anytime. 

Well, it was too late to change anything about his departure. “I…might have sprung this on everyone by delayed message,” he admitted grudgingly.

Ambulon stared at him.

“Would you stick around and argue with all those people?” Ratchet threw up his hands. “You and I know what a medic’s worth without his hands, but Optimus would insist my ‘value’ has nothing to do with whether or not I can actually do my job, and he’s only one of all the ridiculous soft sparks I’d have had to wade through to file the changes, insisting I can be the judge of what I can or can’t do the entire time, and I won’t have it. I made a decision, end of argument! The only reasonable chance I had of making them do as I said was to take myself physically out of reach. They **have** to take Pharma on the latest mission as the new CMO, and I am **not** returning their calls until they stop treating him like a substitute. He’s my replacement, and he can do the job every bit as well as I did,” he wasn’t going to mention any doubts he had, “and they better get used to him, because I’m not going back!”

Ambulon stared at him some more.

“…I didn’t tell him I was leaving, or that I’d promoted him. He might have some reason to be upset,” Ratchet confessed after a minute of silent pressure.

Shaking his head, Ambulon finally looked away to heave the last crate off the sled. “It’s still not professional to yell at us. It’s not our fault.” Not their fault Ratchet was an oilpan and a half, his caustic tone said in the subtext. Ratchet bristled but couldn’t really protest. 

“Imagine how loud he’ll yell at **me** ,” he said instead, and Ambulon outright laughed.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Part Three**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

There was only so much dodging he could do, at his new rank. All of Autobot High Command outranked him, now. They could call at any time, demanding he pick up the calls, and eventually, it came down to creating excuses for why he didn't.

Ratchet was usually too straightforward to feign communication problems, but his new team pulled his weight on this one. First Aid could fake a mean dropped call. 

"Oh, rust, I'm so sorry!" spoken in the nurse's most earnest tone mollified Optimus Prime three times before the he finally took a hint and stopped calling back. 

They eyed the communication console in united suspicion. "The timing's right for last-minute mission prep," Ratchet suggested. "He's busy or learned his lesson." Either was a possibility. The Prime was persistent, not an idiot.

"We can 'accidentally' disconnect the camera," Ambulon said thoughtfully. He tapped a forefinger on his chin as he stood there with one hand supporting his elbow and optics studying the console like it was a problem to be solved. "Let me handle any incoming calls here. There's a whole file of prerecorded static we can layer over voice-only calls."

Ratchet looked at him. "Prerecorded static?"

"Mm. The storms cause a lot of interference."

"No, I get that. But why do you have prerecorded static?"

Ambulon and First Aid exchanged a speaking look. "You haven't met the head of the mining operation yet." The ward manager clapped a hand on his new boss' shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll catch on to how to break up a call when you need to."

Two days in Delphi, and Ratchet had learned more about ducking unwanted contact than he had from two thousand years working at the Deltaran Medical Facility. He hadn't expected his subordinates to be masterminds of snubbing Autobot High Command, but then again, he hadn't expected Autobot High Command to have systematically screwed them over. Something disciplinary should be done about that one way or another, but given his lack of rank, what could he do? Protest that they were helping him? Not likely. Rail at the higher-ups? It wasn't as though they hadn't tried that themselves.

He settled on a neutral, "I see." Good enough.

No, wait. "Thank you," he added. There. Much better. "I'll be in my office sorting out financial records if anyone calls," he said as he turned to go.

Ambulon might have said something about, "None shall pass," as he left, but Ratchet figured it was another in-joke. He was getting a feel for how this place operated, and it wasn't nearly as colorless, cold, and barren as the world outside the walls. 

The hallways, if not the treatment rooms, were decorated in bright lights and framed Wrecker recruitment posters. First Aid insisted, and Ambulon hadn’t found a regulation forbidding it, so he’d grudgingly let it slide. The ward manager himself seemed sour, an emotionally stunted part of bureaucratic middle management, but the stoic impression only lasted until the first time he cracked a joke. It had been a terrible pun. It took Ratchet ten seconds to catch on, as Ambulon had said it without changing expression, in the same voice he used to drone on about patient charts. 

“He does that,” First Aid told him later. “Don’t worry. He’s not a mindless machine. He goes high-pitched and sarcastic when the slag hits the fan.”

Well, that would be something to look forward to, at least. Ambulon had already pulled him aside to warn him about First Aid’s obsession with faction insignia, so the concentrated staring at his Autobot badges didn’t unnerve him much past the first day. Nurse and ward manager had obviously had a lot of time to get used to each other, trapped in the medical center with nobody but the miners and a constant cycle of short-lived medical personnel for company. There was tension between them that Ratchet hadn't had time to sort out yet, but they had been running the facility by themselves since the D.J.D. took out the rest of the staff four months ago. Whatever problems they had, he was fairly confident they could sort it out themselves.

Leaving Ratchet to handle the clinic’s neglected administrative tasks. Whoever the last head of Delphi had been, he'd left the finances gutted with no explanation as to where the absent funds had vanished to. No receipts, no notes, not even a history of supply requisitions. The money could have just as easily been spent on personal indulgences as medical supplies, for all the records left behind. From what Ambulon had said, however, the mines received the majority of supply drops. Delphi received a crate in the general cargo, maybe two if they were lucky, and that’s how it had always been for as long as the ward manager remembered. Ratchet’s arrival had coincided with one of the rare medical supply drops, and the crates had all fit on a single sled.

Where had the money gone? Ambulon didn’t know. First Aid didn’t know. There were no records of the missing shanix, just a drained account. It would stay empty until the next budget cycle. That meant Delphi had to make what was here stretch to last.

First Aid and Ambulon had shrugged, unsurprised, when he’d broken the news to them. They were resigned to things beyond their control. Ratchet had the frequent, rather uncharitable thought that he'd have tossed the last head of the facility out into the snow himself if the mech had still been around.

He’d been calculating operating costs down when the personal console on the desk chimed. 

A wave of horror crashed over him. Aw, slag him. He hadn't disconnected the office comline. And he didn't know how to engage First Aid's clever little automated system to filter incoming calls, either. This could be some miner screaming for emergency medical help, for all Ratchet knew. 

It chimed again.

Since he could, he turned off the console screen. It was a silly little precaution that wouldn’t help much, but it was better than nothing. Already flinching, he pressed the _Accept Call_ button. 

The speakers fizzed online. Familiar engines growled through the static, angry as Pharma’s snarled, " **Ratchet**."

So much for the slight chance of Decepticon attack in the forecast. Weather prediction was now 100% chock-full of enraged surgeon. "Thank you for calling the office of Ratchet," Ratchet began without hope. "I'm not in at the moment. If this is an emergency, please dial -- "

Jet engines _howled_. Pharma yelled as much to be heard over them as because he was just that rusted angry. "You miswired **moron**! I'm not going to fall for that when you didn't even bother to turn off the blasted camera!"

Ah. Oops.

Ratchet carefully didn't look at the camera mounted over the console screen. Well, that hadn't worked. 

He hesitated before turning on the screen. Loud, angry engine noises didn’t do much to blot out the increasingly foul language being flung at him through the speakers. Pharma was in fine form. The pile of unopened messages in Ratchet’s inbox might have something to do with that, or maybe the calls from Optimus Prime. It didn’t bode well for Pharma’s pride that the Prime had attempted to contact Ratchet. Autobot High Command didn’t want to switch Chief Medical Officers for a score of personal reasons, but ego didn’t account for such things. Probably all Pharma cared to notice was that the higher-ups weren’t swooning at his feet in gratitude that he’d taken the position.

It wasn’t nice of Ratchet to think that about his lover and partner, but he knew the mech well enough to know what was going on in that hard head. This wasn’t going to be a fun conversation to have. Could he fumble at the power button convincingly enough to claim an ‘accidental’ disconnect?

"Don't you dare! Don't you even dare, and that's an **order** you fragging glitchead bumper-junked gearstick-licker!"

Frag him. Pharma ranked him now, and wasn’t that an unpleasant reminder of that fact? "Didn't take you long to start ordering me around," Ratchet snapped, stung. He thumbed the console on and frowned at the surgeon glaring back at him. “I know you’ve just been waiting to boss me around.” 

It was an unfair accusation, but the truth in it verbally slapped Pharma hard enough he jerked his head back, shocked. The flash of hurt surprise passed as quickly as it’d come, and the surgeon launched immediately into an attack of his own. "What did you expect?! You’re acting like an irresponsible medtech student dodging your professor! You blew all your collected downtime on swapping out your shifts on the schedule and took off before anyone could notice. You’re not answering any of **my** messages, at least,” and he sounded quite offended about it, possibly suspecting Ratchet had been answering other people, “and you haven’t been picking up your comms -- "

"Oh, so now it's my fault that you never respect my wishes, I see how it is. You’ll leave me wondering where you are for hours after a recovery mission because you just **have** to have your meddling wings in that surgical suite all the damn time, you can’t spare a single minute to even text me saying you made it back fine, everything’s okay but you won’t be back to our quarters until late -- "

Feedback whined from the speakers as Pharma hiked his volume up another notch to overpower Ratchet. "It is **not** the same thing! Forgetting a date isn’t even **close** to the same thing as resigning from your position and moving **half a galaxy** away in the dead of night. How can you even **say** that, you -- you know what, no.” Scowling, the fuming mech pushed back from the desk and raised his hands in a classic _Hands Off_ gesture. He wasn’t touching that. “I refuse to dignify that steaming pile of garbage with an argument. You cut and run, end of story. You didn’t even tell me you were going, and I had to find out where you went from your **transfer ticket**. You **ran** , you **coward** , you **always do** , you never even **try** to talk with me -- “

Harsh laughter shut the surgeon up, his lips pressing together into a thunderous frown as Ratchet loudly belly-laughed in open derision of what he’d said.

“Me?” Ratchet managed through the laughter. “You’re the paragon of approachability, yep, you got me. You make it soooo easy to sit down and say, look, this has to happen and I don’t want to drag it out. Stop being ridiculous! Why is it so slagging hard for you to get it through your head that you can't control me? Most people would interpret transferring out without a word as a hint to stop riding my bumper, but apparently that’s not clear enough communication for **you**."

He regretted it the second he said it, but too late to take that back. 

It was the second time he’d truly struck a blow to Pharma’s spark. The surgeon worked his mouth, unable to find words around the hurt showing clear, pale blue in his optics. At the edges of the screen, his wings slowly sagged.

"Pharma…I didn’t mean to say we’re…well.” 

The apology, as always, stuck in his throat, and Pharma’s pride recovered faster than a Wrecker in Intensive Care. “You want to talk about respect and control?” the surgeon said in a deadly soft voice. His optics darkened, pits of burning rage, and his wings bristled. “Do you really want to have that conversation? Really?” His voice climbed, heading for the angry howl his engines were accelerating toward. “Don't start that with me! What kind of ‘respect’ is throwing me to the cyberhounds? Answer me **that** , Ratchet!”

Being put on the defense tied a knot in his transmission, his engine grinding between gears as he sputtered for an answer. "You -- oh, stow the show. You always wanted my position, don't lie. It's not like I couldn't tell what all those snide little remarks were about. ‘I deserve more!’” he mimicked in a sniveling voice while Pharma’s armor puffed up in outrage. “’We’ll see which of us is the better surgeon, eh? Eeeeh?’” He dropped the mockery and scowled. “Well, you got more, you **are** the better surgeon, so stop acting like you’re not relishing having **everyone’s** attention on you."

"I do deserve it! I deserve to be CMO and you know it! I've had the Prime and that afthead Prowl crawling through my credentials comparing me to you for a week straight talking about how maybe I’m not **qualified** , and they don’t listen to a word I say! The only one they listen to is **you**. Why the frag did you leave if they’re just going to call you back?!"

“I’m not coming back!”

“You took a fake retirement -- “

"That's utter slag, I didn't fake a retirement, I **stepped down**.” Ratchet found he’d brought his hands up in frustrated claws at the screen, reaching out to grab and shake some sense into the entire universe. “You earned it, and they’d be idiots to promote someone less qualified against my recommendation! What more do you want from me? I knew they wouldn’t let me retire easily, so I got the frag out of the way so they’d **have** to accept you!” He dropped his hands to the desk. Primus, this whole argument exhausted him. “You wanted my job. I gave it to you."

But that seemed to upset Pharma even more. “I didn’t want you to **give** it to me, I -- “ He stopped. “I didn’t want. I.” Ratchet vents closed as he waited for the words struggling to come out. Pharma forced them out almost reluctantly. “I wanted…to be **better** than you."

The connection almost rang empty in the silence. In the absence of angry shouting, layers of old arguments peeled back, flaking away as the underlying truth was finally brought up to the surface after too long buried. Despite yelling over and at one another, that one, quiet statement struck true to the struts.

Ratchet stared through the screen at his old protégé, partner, friend, and lover, and the words ached like an exposed wound.

Pharma didn't meet his optics. He shifted restlessly in front of the camera, rage and hurt twisting his expressive face into a changing landscape of betrayal. "I wanted to be better than you," he repeated as if touching a sore spot. “I never wanted it given to me. I was supposed to be better.” His words felt it out, his optics wandering over an internal landscape like he was realizing the extent of the damage. 

This was an old wound, older than their relationship, and it had been festering under the surface for a long, long time by now. It hurt. It hurt them both, but there was a certain kind of relief in opening it up to air. This was something a long time coming, and there was a sense of inevitability to bringing it to light in the middle of this train-wreck of an argument. Why _not_ now, right? 

Ratchet hurt more for his distant partner than he did for himself. Their relationship had been a complicated thing from the start, their careers always coming first even when it shouldn’t have. Pharma's jealousy had been there from the start, but so had Ratchet’s arrogance assumption that he could do this, he could balance his personal and professional life, he could find a middle ground where their relationship could become something healthy. He never quite had. It had never been good _for_ them, but what kept them together was how it was good _enough_.

Pharma had to be the best in everything he did. He was addicted to perfection, prodded to ever greater feats by his overweening ego, and he'd clung to Ratchet first as a student admiring a teacher, then as a colleague recognizing superior skill, and eventually as a lover. If he couldn’t have Ratchet’s job, it seemed, he’d been determined to have Ratchet himself.

And Ratchet had been hardly better. He was as addicted to being needed as Pharma was to being desired, and their relationship fed that sick cycle. Break one side of their unspoken bargain, however, and what was left between them?

Ratchet had never really been able to if they were together from affection or competition. The pain in his spark answered the question on his end. From the lost look on Pharma's face, the surgeon was asking himself the same thing.

"You are better," Ratchet said gruffly. “You’re better than I am. There. I’ve said it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Pharma's hands were works of art. The surgeon traced patterns on his desk using them, fingertips making aimless doodles that he studied intently. "It’s not a fair competition anymore, is it?" 

It was Ratchet’s turn to wince, stricken. Right in the pride, that one. He had been trying to resign himself to reality, but ouch. 

Pharma's optics sought Ratchet's own hands. Ratchet refused to hide them under his desk. "I read your file."

No doubt about that. Pharma had a liking for the trappings of power, and for throwing his weight around. Ratchet was sure he’d been riffling through classified files opened by his rank for the past week, snooping where he hadn’t been allowed before. Everything he'd always wanted to do but couldn't because of their respective ranks was his to do, now. 

"And?" Ratchet said, since Pharma seemed to be waiting for a response.

"I know why you retired."

He couldn't stop the slight curl of his fingers. "Do you."

Pharma looked straight at him again. "You can say I’m better, but your hands throw the contest. Who knows how long they’ve been degrading?” He waved away Ratchet’s objection before it started. “I know, I know, they’re your hands. You probably felt the effects long before now, but -- I didn’t even notice.” A disconcerted look crossed his face as the more personal aspect of that hit home, but he dismissed the thought a moment later. This was about _him_ , fraggit, not _them_. “I've been comparing myself to you when you’re well past your peak for who knows how long -- “

“Hey!” He wasn’t that far past the prime of his life!

The protest was ignored. “ -- and I still came up second-best. I’ll never have the chance to see how we compared as equals.” The degradation of the older medic's hands would skew any sort of comparison made between them now. Pharma was heading into the prime of his own life, hands functioning at their best, right as Ratchet headed downslope.

He’d taken first place by default. From the oddly bewildered expression on his face, it wasn’t satisfying to win without actually winning.

Lifting his optics to the screen, Pharma met Ratchet's gaze with almost an accusing look. "I’m never going to impress you."

"You impress me all the time," Ratchet said softly. "How many times do I have to say I'm proud of you before you believe me?"

“That’s not -- “ His mouth snapped into an unhappy line. That wasn’t what he meant. He meant that he’d never be so overwhelmingly awesome that Ratchet stepped aside because of his glorious accomplishments. No matter how proud he was, he couldn’t say that out loud. “You know what I meant.”

Ratchet did, but he wasn't about to coddle Pharma over this. Primus alive, this was exactly why he'd left without a word to anyone. This kind of confrontation left him helpless. It was a peril of the job, he thought sometimes. Medics were so used to being able to fix people physically that the emotional side of things fell right through their hands.

He aimed for casual disdain, hoping to lighten the mood. ""You got the job because I know you can handle it, not because I compared the two of us and decided you're the superior. It's not how you wanted to take over, but, well. Now you can have your dream life. Congratulations."

Pharma’s wings flinched. "This isn't my dream life."

Ratchet frowned, stomping on his bruised pride, but resentment bubbled over. "What? Because I'm not there fawning over you?" The flinch repeated, and Ratchet's engine grumbled. "That's what you wanted, isn't it. That's it. You wanted to beat me. You wanted to be lauded as the winner, like this is all a big contest! What did you think would happen, Optimus would give us each a patient and time how fast we repaired them? Split a mech in half and see who welds the prettiest? Pharma -- "

"No, I -- "

Ratchet ground gears hard enough a sharp pang went through his chassis. Pharma drew back in surprise, and Ratchet charged into the interruption to finish speaking. "Don't be stupid! I've never promoted anyone because they're any better or faster or -- or anything more than someone else! That's not how promotions **work** , not in a medibay, and if you haven't figured that someone’s merit depends on them alone, you’re the last person I should have put in charge." 

Pharma waited a moment, mouth pinched into a bitter frown. When Ratchet didn't continue, he sneered, "I'm well aware that there wouldn't have been any sort of open competition for CMO. I simply wanted…" He hesitated, his haughty mask faltering to show a yawning hole of vulnerable insecurities waiting underneath, and Ratchet pressed his lips together to keep from interrupting this time. Pharma shook his head, a furrow digging deep between his brows. "I wanted acknowledgement."

"You wanted fame,” Ratchet corrected. “You wanted everyone to see that you'd beaten me."

"Hmmph. As if there was ever question that I could." Pharma snorted.

"You couldn't beat me and you know it." 

Pharma stayed silent, however, and it was Ratchet's turn to flinch. That was Pharma, alright: sound of body, large in ego, impossibly fragile at spark. 

He softened his voice, intentionally pushing some of his own sparkache into his words. “What’s done is done, Pharma. Does it matter how it happened? I resigned. You got the position you wanted."

Pharma's shoulders slumped out of their stiff set. "I did, didn't it?" He smiled a bit, optics lowered to stare down at the desk, but it wasn't a happy smile. Black humor shaded his voice bleak. "I have everything I wanted. Your job, your rank, your office. Even your chair.” He shifted around on it. “No wonder your back hurt.”

“What would you know? You’re bigger than I am. That chair’s fine for someone my size.”

“Hmmph.” 

“Oh, get it replaced if it bothers you that much.”

“I can do that now, can’t I,” Pharma said thoughtfully. He put his elbow on the desk, chin perched on the heel of his hand as he looked through the screen at Ratchet. “I’m the Chief Medical Officer, now."

"Yes, the Chief Medical Officer in a war," Ratchet agreed, voice desert-dry. “It’s not as much fun as it sounds.”

The needling comment poked Pharma into shooting him a glare. "And you’re the director of a hovel in the middle of D.J.D. territory. That sounds just **wonderful**.”

Ratchet shrugged. Pharma had a point.

Being Pharma, the surgeon kept pushing. “You're working with total incompetents, too. Your resident nurse was demoted from full medic for obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and worse, that cogsucker of a ward manager is a former Decepticon! Have you **read** his file?"

“No, for some reason none of that information made it into my transfer packet. I’ve been too busy putting out fires and dodging calls to read up on my people,” he said, leveling a meaningful look at Pharma. 

“At least half of that could have been avoided by an aft-to-head transplant before you left.”

He understood the point, but how rude. "You’d better not be verbally abusing other people this way,” he said lightly, but there was a note of steel under the warning. He was fairly sure part of First Aid and Ambulon’s willingness to help him evade commcalls was from Pharma yelling at them before he arrived on Messatine.

Pharma didn’t do ‘shamefaced,’ but he avoided Ratchet’s optics. “I thought I’d take advantage of rank to tell you what I really think.” Ratchet barked a laugh at the idea of Pharma censoring himself, and the surgeon half-smiled. “Might not have another chance.” 

Ratchet’s laughter stopped short. “I'm old, not dead."

"Yet."

"I have no intention of dying anytime soon." 

A nameless tension around Pharma's optics released. Winglets flicked in relief, and Ratchet suddenly felt terrible that he'd left without a word. How long had Pharma been worried about him? Messatine exported more corpses than nucleon, after all. 

The surgeon didn't show any of that worry right now. "Can you blame me for writing you off? You cut and run off to a deathtrap of a posting like you're making a martyr of yourself!" Pharma's voice dropped half an octave, taking on a mocking mimicry of Ratchet's own voice. "Oh, woe is **me** , my old age is catching up with me. I must now flee the shame of being overshadowed by my magnificent younger colleague -- "

"Magnificent?! I'll show you magnificent, you winged scrapheap!"

" -- and since I have the sensitivity of a decrepit MARB, I'll go for maximum dramatic effect by taking off without a word so everyone will automatically think the worst and fly into a panic. Yes, that sounds delightful. I shall do that.”

Ratchet really had no rejoinder for that. Overly pompous imitation of him or not, Pharma wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true from his side of things.

The surgeon paused, waiting for a retort that didn’t come, and his optics held flouted pride. The pouting frown was pure hurt, however. Ratchet knew the shape well. It was the same pout Pharma wore whenever he’d come in late after a meeting with Autobot High Command, one of the meetings a mere surgeon didn’t qualify to attend. He knew what it was like to run his thumb along it, coaxing the pout slowly into a smile. It was so familiar it made his spark ache for the distance between them. 

They hadn’t stayed together so long because they were a beautifully harmonic couple. They were terrible at communication. The both of them, so it wasn’t as though the blame for their lack of meaningful talks fell on one or the other, but they had managed work-arounds for handling each other that didn’t involve hashing out the underlying issues. When Ratchet snarled biting remarks at Pharma for pushing too far, or when Pharma’s ego got singed, they knew how to deal with the aftermath.

They worked well together as medics and partners, but their personal lives were a hot mess. It was a mess they could depend on in the midst of the larger chaos of war, which felt a lot like security in a way. What kept them together outside of a professional context was sheer passion. They broke up often, more than once just so they could make up.

Ratchet wanted to reach through the screen, hold Pharma’s face in his hands, and kiss that pout away. He wanted to kiss it until it bit him back, and then the tight anger turning the air to a wall between them would crack. Once he made the first move, they could nip and curse and breathlessly say things that meant everything under the cover of impassioned groping. They could pretend nothing had changed if they were doing the same dance as always.

He couldn’t do that, here. The fine tremble of his fingers surprised him as he laid the tips on the console screen. Unease flickered in Pharma’s optics, but Ratchet wasn’t gathering words to unleash in a sudden torrent. He was old. He was tired. He was _re_ tired. The consequences for those facts had been dumped square on his partner’s shoulders, and yes, he’d deserved a kick in the tailpipe for that.

“I wish I could kiss you,” he said, surprised all over again by the hoarse rasp in his voice.

Optics flaring in shock, Pharma sat back. Honest emotion showed through for just a second.

“Yes. Well. You can’t.” He turned his head and reset his vocalizer, and when he looked back at the screen, the familiar cocky smirk was in full display. “You did that to yourself, you know.”

Ratchet smiled a trifle sadly. “I know.”

Pharma stared at him. He stared back. Neither of them knew where to start, but hanging up didn’t seem like an option either.

Pharma’s smart mouth could always be counted on to divert an awkward moment. “You’re not allowed to die,” he ordered out nowhere, and Ratchet twitched. One elegant surgeon’s hand pointed at him. “You hear me? I’m going to see this war ended, and I want you alive to watch me do it.”

Ratchet blinked, smiling despite himself. “Oh, will you? I see how it is. I leave, and you’ll single-handedly end the war. Then what?”

“Then I’ll reopen the Academy, of course,” Pharma said, nose in the air, “and I expect you to be at my side.”

“I’ll be no good in a -- “

Pharma snorted, interrupting him. “You’ll be useless in a hospital, yes, I know -- “

“Watch it!”

“ -- but you’ll be worth your weight in shanix as a professor. You’ll make a fine academic instructor for the new medical program, and I expect you to reserve at least three nights a week to accompany me to events.”

Ratchet worked his mouth for a moment. “Events.”

“Galas, political meetings, academic functions. The usual.” Pharma waved a hand. “There’s no point in wasting your experience or influence keeping you in some sort of ice-locked nowhere. If I’m going to support you as my kept mech, I expect you to repay me by playing the room at my side.”

He…what? A quick reset of his vox box came out sounding like a laugh, and Ratchet found himself smiling again. “I’ll make terrible arm candy, you know.”

“Nonsense. You’ll be a lovely paid companion. My salary will be enough to support you in style, and you’ll be shown off at all the finest establishments. Why retire from the public optics when you could rule the socialites with a malfunctioning but experienced fist?”

Definitely a laugh, now. “And I suppose you’ll also expect all of my classes to graduate with a degree in buffing your aft.” 

“Mm, a goodly amount of respect is only my due. Someone will have to do the practical demonstrations for them, since you won’t be able to.” Pharma cocked a knowing look at him.

Oh come on, his hands weren’t completely useless. “I don’t know, you may regret taking me out with you. I never learned to keep my mouth shut.”

Pharma’s optics narrowed in juvenile amusement. “What, you can’t be seen and not heard? Is that a requirement? Yet I have clear memories of you encouraging me to talk at those hospital meet-and-greets you used to drag me to. Why, Ratchet, were you using me to distract those Senators with my charm and good looks?”

“I’m not saying you were **just** an ornament, no” Ratchet teased, and Pharma scowled, caught between indignation and preening at the backhanded compliment. “Are you saying you’ll set me loose on your enemies?”

“Hmmph.” Pharma slouched back in his seat, crossing his arms to sulk. “Maybe you should stay silent.”

Ratchet leaned his elbow on the desk, propping his chin on his hand. This kind of back-and-forth put him back on solid footing. It felt right, and a comforting warmth filled his spark chamber as he smirked at the camera. “Maybe you’ll have to make me.”

Pharma’s optics slid to the side. The small motions of his wings, the little adjustments to his shoulder vents, they all stopped. For a few seconds, the surgeon sat peculiarly still, as though Ratchet’s words had struck straight to his spark. Before Ratchet said something, however, Pharma rolled his shoulders back, blinking rapidly. The devilish grin he pasted on hid a plethora of emotions, but Ratchet caught a glimpse of worry. 

“I suppose I will, at that,” the surgeon drawled. “It means you’ll have to stick around to be a pain in my afterburners, now won’t it?”

“Ha! I’m not the one who’s heading into danger alongside Optimus Prime, now. I should be the one making **you** promise to come back alive!”

“Pfah. I’ll live.” Pharma tossed his head. 

“Or maybe I should be concerned you’ll find someone new and exciting. You’ll be out there meeting all these young doctors and nurses in the line of duty, now.”

“Oh, for Adaptus’ sake.”

“Cavorting with the young and impressionable graduates intent on using you to climb the ranks. You’ll forget all about me in a week.”

Pharma glared so hard the lenses in his optics flashed white. “I’m not going to forget you.”

Ratchet refused to label what he felt as relief. Instead, he spread the fingers of his hand in a _’Sure you won’t’_ gesture. “So you say. We’ll see how that’s changed by the end of the war. I’ll get off the transport to an empty arrival dock, and you’ll be gadding about with some jumped-up general practitioner with a wing fetish.”

Pharma narrowed his optics. “With a -- I see. So that’s what you think of me.” Ratchet eyed the jet’s wings meaningfully, and a nasty grin quirked the ends of Pharma’s mouth. “So it’s a date, then.”

“Agreed.”

“On the dock, end of the war.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Yes, you will.”

Pharma glared at him a moment more, mouth attempting to smile despite his offended pride, and Ratchet sternly told his own lips to stop trying to turn up. One of their ventilation systems fuffed, the vents coughing a precursor to helpless laughter.

They nodded sharp agreement at the same moment, reached out, and ended the call as one.

“Goodbye,” Ratchet said to the blank screen. For the first time since he’d signed the transfer, the future didn’t come to an abrupt, vague end in his mind. There was a deep, heavy weight in his chest for that, but he felt strangely light nonetheless.

His hand rested against the screen, right where Pharma’s face had been. He missed the frustrating glitch already. “Wait for me.”

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
